it’s a story about stories, and you’re playing as hawke but really you’re playing from varric’s perspective his stories for making sense of the world.
#King of heroes tumblr how to#
And for a second of pure wonder, they shone the brightest of sunshine golds before fading back into the warmest, richest brown, “you will be a wonder, mi Princesa,” Bruno rasped, running a square finger across her cheek as she stared up at him intently, “mi Mirabel,”ĭa2 does SO many interesting things, from its very deliberately paced and solid three act structure, its arc as a tragedy, its use of the frame narrative and the metatextual implications of a stated unreliable narrator - all the questions surrounding how much of what we’re playing is the actual truth or where the narrative is distorted by the storyteller: varric extrapolating from what he does know in situations where he wasn’t present, like the romances, or even him openly admitting that he’s taking liberties because it makes for a better story, you can sometimes deduce he’s protecting someone b/c he’s basically talking to a templar cop lol, every so often he doesn’t actually know what happened but doesn’t believe cassandra will buy that - or simply out of love, like giving hawke that talk with leandra at the end of the dlc even if she’s dead, because hawke deserves the closure and this is the only way varric knows how to give it to them. “I give you my sword, mi sobrinita,” he mumbled, feeling the hilt still strapped at his side, “I swear myself to it,” And, as though hearing his words for herself, Mirabel opened her eyes for the first time. But perhaps, this little one could fill the hole he didn’t even realize had been in his heart for so long. He was hardly a Prince at all, and had little care for love when his sisters were far better suited to taking the throne one day.
But Bruno was a scholar by trade an educator and a speaker of words. No heirs, much to the displeasure of his Mama. How many golden laid toys, silk gowns of blue and white, and stitched animals with sapphire eyes he would so willingly lay down at her feet. He would do everything in his power to make it so, and already his head filled with the extravagant gifts with which he would shower her. The babe was perfectly imperfect, and Bruno knew that she would be spoiled rotten. But here, under a dark, drizzling sky, he held his smallest niece for the first time on his own terms, and knew that she would be his world. Even now they seemed so distant from him, running about sections of the palace dedicated to their godly gifts, and their learning. And it was all very staged, like he was made to wait with the rest of the kingdom to see for himself the new addition to their family line. When his other nieces and nephews had been born, it had been quite sometime before he was allowed to meet them. Yet as Bruno pulled her close to him, staring down at a face that so reflected that of his eldest, kindest sister, his heart was set alight with a new, protective fire. “Healthy,” the woman said - the same who’s hands were still bloodstained up to her elbows, “a beautiful girl, your highnesses.” And Bruno hesitantly extended his arms to hold the babe, wrapped so haphazardly in burlap cloth that was harsh against his smooth, unblemished palms. No doubt silently thanking whoever looked down upon them for bringing her third daughter into the world without fail. And though she was settled now, her glistening collar dabbed at by a young boy no older then 7, she smiled at the sky as her grip released. He was enthralled by the baby, and held his sister Julieta’s hand as she struggled through labor far from the comforts of home.
Yet Bruno, high Prince of Encanto, son of Queen Alma and subsequent heir to the throne, couldn’t have care less. And rather then clean ivory walls burning lightly with incense cradling this new babe, she was born in a crooked old barn not far from the trade road, where the scent of animal and rainstorm tainted his nostrils raw. The infant was a bloody, whining, squirming thing hardly elegant nor godlike. Unlike her sister Isabela, who’s head was christened in rosewater the minute she was birthed, or Luisa who was immediately coddled in the finest of linens to warm, Mirabel was handled by a woman who’s name Bruno could not even recall, and had callouses across her flat palms. Unlike her sisters and cousins, who had been born within the safety of alabaster stone pylons, and in the presence of trained nursemaids draped in maroon and gold silks, Princesa Mirabel had no such luxury.
Bruno knew the night she was born that Princesa Mirabel Valentina Rojas Madrigal was a gift from the gods.
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